


Duct Tape & Glitter Glue

by YoungDumbandFullofHeadcanons



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Adopted AU, Adoption, Alternate Universe, Brothers, Drabbles, Family Feels, Fix-It, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, No Slash, Parenthood, baby dipper and mabel, but very lightly, coded antisemitism, ford never goes into the portal, gravity falls events still happen but different, no ships, stan and ford live together, swearing I guess, they adopt mabel and dipper
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:41:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23007556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YoungDumbandFullofHeadcanons/pseuds/YoungDumbandFullofHeadcanons
Summary: In 1982 Stan and Ford reconnect, defeat Bill (for now) and live the next 20 years semi-peacefully together in Gravity Falls. Until suddenly their great niece and nephew are orphaned and the Stan Twins have to raise them. It's difficult.Adoption Au where:Dipper and Mabel are babiesStan and Ford don't hate each otherDifferent Families aren't broken families& Gravity Falls is still weird
Relationships: Dipper Pines & Mabel Pines, Ford Pines & Stan Pines, no ships - Relationship
Comments: 21
Kudos: 120





	1. 2001 Part 1

### Duct Tape & Glitter Glue

_Summer, 2001_

Neither Stanford or Stanley would say that living together was easy. Stanford would often stay up until the wee hours of the night in the basement laboratory, drinking coffee and loudly defying the laws of physics. Stanley, after many get-rich-quick schemes, settled on turning their home into a tacky tourist trap, using local legend and failed experiments to milk cash from stupid people. Neither of them are very good at cooking or cleaning. They bicker about anything and everything, day in and day out. 

But after twenty years in Gravity Falls, both brothers have settled into a comfortable routine. Stanford’s research thrives in the strange Oregon town, even after his grant money ran out a decade ago. The Mystery Shack is the most honest business Stanley has ever owned, and it brings in a steady income to support them both. When Stanford needed unstable plutonium for a new project, Stanley had no problem helping him break into a government lab. When Stanley almost got caught for tax fraud, Stanford easily hacked into the IRS database and corrupted the information. Even into their late 50’s they were a team, the Mystery Twins.

(And they both agreed not to talk about the ten years they spent apart, after a broken perpetual motion machine and a life changing argument. Neither wants to remember Stanley’s time grifting across the country and ending up in four different prisons. And both would rather forget Stanford spiraling into an obsession with cross-dimensional contact, threatening his sanity and the fabric of the universe. But one fateful winter in 1982 brought them back together, and after a minor fist fight they remembered that the only person they could trust was each other. They dismantled an interdimensional portal, Stanford helped his brother evade a few arrest warrants, and Stanley punched an ethereal triangle man in back into the dreamscape. The next twenty years were suspiciously peaceful, but sometimes Stanford would see a shadow move in the darkness, and he'd wonder if their troubles were really over.)

So yeah, twenty years living together in Gravity Falls and they couldn’t imagine a better life. Fighting goblins and discovering ancient UFOs. The biggest complaint is the occasional gnome digging through their trash. They’ve been talking about a plan for retirement, which is to buy a boat and treasure hunt around the world, like they wanted to as kids. But all that changes when the phone rings. 

“Hello?” Stanford answers, setting down a device he was tinkering with to hopefully tap into secret unicorn radio frequencies. Stanley sits at the kitchen table, counting money from the gift shop and picking at a lukewarm plate of spaghetti. Stanford cooked and it tastes just like Ma used to make, which is bad. 

“Hello, is this Stan Pines?” A woman says, sounding hopeful but stressed through the phone.

“Yes, but which one?” Stanford says pointedly, used to the “my brother and I kind of have the same name” issue. “And why?” he asks, giving _that look_ to Stanley. 

The other twin has been listening and throws his hands up silently, as if to say _I haven’t done anything… lately._

Even in their old-ish age, their twin telepathy is on point. 

“Well actually I’m looking for, um…” The woman sounds as if she’s shuffling through papers, “Stanley _and_ Stanford Pines? I only have one number on file.”

The elder twin pauses, wondering what _file_ she’s talking about, before gesturing his brother over. Stanley, now curious to what’s got Stanford bugging out, pushes dinner aside and comes to the landline phone as it's put on speaker. 

“We’re both here,” Stanford answers warily, not giving away any other information. 

“Who’s asking anyway?” Stanley says gruffly, leaning against the kitchen wall. 

“Well, um- Hello, I’m from child services in Northland County California, and I’m sorry to tell you that yesterday your nephew Phil Pines and his wife Amy died in a car accident,” she at least does sound sorry, but that doesn’t save the twins from the shock.

Both men look at each other panicked suddenly, with the shared thought of _no, no it can’t really be true_ . They remember decades ago, getting back in touch with their little brother Shermine and finding out about their nephew. They remember, after much debate, going to Phil’s bar mitzvah years later, which had gone about as well as you could expect. (Stanley almost got into a fist fight with their father, whom he hadn’t seen since he got kicked out. And Stanford gifted their nephew an ancient Jewish relic that almost cursed him for 10,000 years.) But overall, they remember Phil being a bright youngster that was surprisingly well adjusted, and the twins marveled that there was someone in their family that was normal. Over the years, they stayed in touch with their nephew, sending a (not cursed) gift after he graduated high school, a melancholy phone call after Shermine’s death, a letter about his engagement to a nice girl from California, and a year ago, a picture of their newborn twins ( _It must run in the family!_ was written on the back of the photo). 

“But the-”

“What about-” 

Both Stans start and stop at once, mouths agape with shock and heartbreak written across their faces. 

“The reason I’m calling is because their children, Mabel and Mason, weren’t in the accident and are now in our care. And you both are their closest living relatives.”

“What!?” Stanley and Stanford say at once, getting whiplash from the news. 

“This is unusual, because usually there are closer relatives- both in the family and geographically- but, there isn’t,” the CPS lady sounds like she’s exhausted all other options. 

An awkward beat of silence passes as the twins realize what she’s asking of them.

“You want us to…?” Stanford askes, somehow unable to wrap his genius brain around it all.

“If you are unable to care for the children they will be placed into a foster home and put up for adoption. But at the moment, you both are their legal guardians.”

“What- But we can’t-”

“We’ve never even met-”

“We don’t know how to-”

“How old are they even-”

The jumble of words the brothers shout at the phone is almost incomprehensible, but the woman on the phone seems to get the idea. 

“I understand that this is sudden and a difficult decision,” she says, tone measured. “But our biggest priority, besides their safety, is to keep families together.”

And then Stanley gets that sad look, like a kicked puppy, and Stanford knows what he thinks.

“Would you hold on for a moment,” the elder twin says quickly, putting the phone on hold and looking at his. “Stanley, _no-_ ”

“But Sixer-” he groans.

“Don’t _Sixer_ me, we can’t take care of two babies!” Stanford shouts, throwing his hands up. “We can’t even take care of one baby!”

“We’re their family Stanford! We can’t just abandon them,” Stanley shouts back at him, making his brother recoil with guilt. 

“We aren’t abandoning them, they’ll get adopted. They’ll be raised by normal people!”

“Screw normal people! We’ll never see them- they won’t even know who we are!”

“Stanley you have a criminal record-”

“Under a fake identity!”

“-And I have a paranormal laboratory in the basement!”

“They don’t need to know that-” 

“No! Stanley I’m serious, we can not take those kids,” Stanford says with finality, even though there is a lump forming in his throat. “They are better off in foster care together and-” and then a horrible thought crosses his mind, “Unless…”

“They don’t get adopted,” Stanley says quietly, knowing already. 

“And they get seperated.”

“And we’ll never know where they are.”

Stanley reaches over and takes the phone off hold.

“Hey lady, if we don’t take them are they gonna be seperated?” He asks, his voice rough with frustration and sadness. 

“Um, well- We try to keep siblings together, but in some situations it’s not always possible-” she tries to say gently.

“Sorry, one more moment,” Stanford interrupts, putting the phone on hold again. 

When their eyes meet, the brothers already know.

“They could-”

“But they might not-”

“We won’t know-”

“We can’t-”

“They can’t be apart-”

“They’re twins-”

“We’re they’re only family-”

“They’re our only family-”

It’s not a hard decision to make. 

“We’ll do it,” They both say at once, and despite the tragic situation and the apprehension of raising two children, the brothers can’t help but feel strangely happy.

The only answer they get is the dull dial tone. 

“Did you hang up on her?”

“ _Oh shit-”_


	2. 2001 Part 2

_Summer, 2001_

Well it’s not that easy to get the A-ok from child services and get a pair of almost-two-year-old twins dropped off on their doorstep. The coordination to get them from California to Oregon alone takes a couple days. Stanley says offhandedly that it’d be faster to put stamps on their foreheads and mail them up to Gravity Falls, and Stanford has to awkwardly convince the social worker that he’s joking. 

They get word that first they need to get through an investigation to see if the home is suitable for children, so they have about 36 hours to completely redo the shack. Stanford finds as many books as he can on baby-proofing (or toddler proofing, as it is), and Stanley has to get rid of the more terrifying exhibits in the Mystery Shack. They find a convenient way to hide the door to the basement by replacing it with a code activated vending machine. They go over every stray nail and blunt edge in the walls, cover the outlets, and then have to consider where the twins will sleep. The only open space they have is the attic, which needs more than a little renovating to be livable. They buy two cribs and an assortment of baby related stuff before they realize they have no idea what they’re doing.

“We don’t even know what kind of stuff they like,” Stanley says as he struggles to put a crib together.

“They’re brains are still developing, they don’t even know what they like,” Stanford reasons, trying to put together the other crib and wondering how it could possibly be more difficult than astrophysics. 

“But like, they’ve gotta like colors right?”

“Well they must, colors are good for eye and brain stimulation.”

“But what colors?”

“I don’t know! I’ve never met them.”

Even more stressful than all that is the background checks they have to pass. Thankfully Stanley’s record was erased several years ago, and the U.S. government has no knowledge of Stanford’s fringe scientific experiments. But they have to provide character references, begging their few local acquaintances for help. Manly Dan, Lazy Susan, and Tad Strange are confused but end up saying a few nice things about them, basically that the Pines’ are weird and antisocial, but not bad people. Stanford considers asking Fiddleford McGucket, but the older man seems to have no memory of him anymore, and Stanford can’t handle the guilt. 

By the time a social worker comes to tell them that the twins are on the way, Stanley and Stanford are trembling with fear that any little mistake will get between them and their niece and nephew _and they’ll lose them forever-_

And then there’s a knock at the door around sunset. The shack looks cleaner than ever and still it seems not good enough. They got a thick rug for the living room floor so the kids don’t fall on the hardwood. There’s an assortment of toys and weird fluffy things in the corner. The corners of the coffee table have been sanded down to curves. 

With all the apprehension in the world, Stanley opens the door and Stanford is standing basically over his shoulder as they see a woman in professional clothing, carrying a cardboard box with _Pines_ written on it. 

“Hello,” she say, juggling the box and a clipboard. “I’m here to drop off the Pines Twins-”

“Gah-!”

And then the elder Pines twins look down and see two little toddlers on their doorstep. The babies stand on chubby little legs, brown curls in disarray and faces looking overtired and kind of sticky. Their cheeks are full and flushed, eyes curious and innocent as they look up, and almost identical. The only difference is that the little boy, Mason, is wearing a blue pajama shirt and his sister, Mabel, has a shirt with pink ponies on it and a binky in her mouth. Their small hands are clenched together, tethered like children’s mittens 

“Hello-”

“Uh, Hi-”

“Please, um- Come in-”

“Why are they just staring-”

The men fumble around each other, starting unfinished sentences as the lady gently ushers the twins inside. The toddlers shuffle in on their little baby sneakers, still holding hands, and Stanford worries that they will just wobble over and fall. Stanley, lost for something to do, offers to take the box from the social worker and goes to set it down on the table. 

“I’m sorry to come so late, they- um have had a hard time with the traveling” the woman says, sounded friendly but exasperated as she introduces herself. “You must be…?”

“Stanford,” he answers, shaking her hand and pretending not to see her stare at his six fingers. 

His brother comes over and introduces himself as well, “Stanley,” but both brothers are paying more attention to the babies wandering through the living room. 

The little twins are precocious, looking around the shack curiously and avoiding the adults while staying at each other’s side. Stanley gives them an awkward little wave and Mason stares at him skeptically (as much as a one-and-half year old could) and Mabel sucks at her binky. 

“Uh- Hi Mabel, hi Mason,” Stanford tries, and they just blink up at him. He turns to the social worker, “Um- do they talk?”

“A little, but mostly to each other,” she says quizzically. “They’re really shy around new adults, but that’s… typical for their situation.” 

The Stan twins take that solemnly, reminded that these little babies don’t really understand what has happened to their parents. Or where they are or what's going on. 

“So I just need to see that the kids get settled and make sure you two are ready for them,” she continues, grabbing her clipboard and looking around. “Where will they be sleeping?”

“Uh, right up here, I’ll show you around,” Stanley says, putting on his best salesman smile and leading her towards the stairs. “Stanford, keep the kiddos entertained.” 

“But- but-” He stutters, catching the subtle nod his brother gives him. _Oh right,_ when Stanley wants to he can charm people into literally giving him their wallets, he'll win over this lady in seconds. All Stanford has to do is keep the babies from breaking their necks for a few minutes.

“Oh, um- here you two come over this way,” he says, herding the kids over to the living room. 

They shy away from him, Mason especially wary of the man, but then Mabel sees the pile of toys in the corner and rushes over, pulling her brother along. She latches onto an overstuffed plush bunny and rubs her face against it’s synthetic fuzz, squealing happily around her binky. Mason sits down beside her and babbles quietly, looking at the other toys from a distance. 

Stanford crouches down to their level, relieved that at least one of the kids is easily enthused. 

“Hey Mason,” he says gently, but the little boy doesn’t even look over to him. “Um, how about this thing?” 

He grabs a plastic spaceship, made of brightly colored plastic that with buttons that light up and make noise. The toddler sees the flashing green lights and immediately pays more attention, eagerly taking the toy and pressing the little buttons. When the spaceship makes a loud _whoosh_ noise his face brightens up and he flaps his hand at his sister.

“Mayba- Mayba!” he says excitedly, and she crawls over to see.

“Fascinating,” Stanford says to himself, sitting on the floor and absolutely captivated by the toddlers. 

“And I said ‘ _Look lady, I may be old but I’m looking for_ ** _baby_** _diapers!’_ ” Stanley says loudly as he and the social worker come back down the stairs, and Stanford wants to go bury himself alive. But the woman laughs somewhat sincerely so it must be okay. 

“Hey bro how’s it going down here?” He says as they come into the living room.

“They’re um-” Stanford says on the floor, gesturing to the twins, “Playing?”

And they are still a little quiet and shy, but Mabel has found some big lego blocks to knock over and Mason is still testing every button on the spaceship. They almost look content.

“Oh wonderful!” The social worker says, looking as relieved as Stanford feels. 

“Whad’ya know Sixer, you’re a natural,” Stanley says, sitting down on the carpet as well, and this time his smile doesn’t look as forced. The twins blink at him curiously before they turn back to the toys. 

“Oh I didn’t- they’re pretty self-sufficient really,” Stanford says bashfully, knowing all he did was show them where the toys were. 

“This is the most at ease I’ve seen them all day,” the woman says gently. “They seem to have pretty bad separation anxiety.” 

The brothers don’t know what to say to that, just watch the twins play together and wonder how to help literal babies through that. 

“Well anyway, everything looks good here and I think the kids are settling fine,” She says after a moment. “I just need you both to sign a few things.”

She awkwardly passes the clipboard to Stanford, because both men are too enamored with the children to get up from the floor. He adjusts his glasses and reads through the paperwork, signing at the bottom and then passing it to his brother, who just signs it right away.

“If I could ask,” the social worker says suddenly, but then pauses like she regrets it. “I don’t mean to be rude, but it is a little _unusual_ for siblings to live together at your age…”

She probably didn’t mean it to come out like that, but they know what she means. It’s not normal to be aging codependent shut-ins with no spouses, children, or other family around. That’s one of the reasons it took so long for them to get the kids here in the first place. But people don’t know them. Don’t know that every time they were apart, their lives fell to pieces. Don’t know that they need each other. 

“Well you see,” Stanley starts, with a restrained edge to his tone, “Me and my brother wanted to focus on our work, and it was more convenient for us to live together.”

“Oh yes,” Stanford cuts in. “I research the local… _wildlife_ ,” that was a word for it, “and my brother was starting a new... _business venture_ ,” Stanford has never been good at improvising. “So it was only logical to consolidate our resources and support each other.”

The woman doesn’t look too weirded out, but she still seems a little confused.

The Stan Twins give each other a look and remember being awkward twelve year old boys in New Jersey, always being asked why they were attached at the hip. And they remember what they used to say to people then.

“It’s a twin thing,” they say together, in that kind of creepy way twins can.

The lady looks kind of freaked out by that, but then the toddlers squeal loudly. Mabel pulls her binky from her mouth and starts babbling enthusiastically.

“Dipa! Dipa aba ba!” she says, waving a toy at her brother. 

Mason cocks his head to the side and crawls closer to her, gurgling happily when she passes him the toy. 

The adults watch with rapt attention, knowing that somehow these two just had a whole conversation in baby talk. 

“Yeah, I guess it is,” the social worker says. 

A few minutes later she is making her leave, saying goodbye to the children (who don’t even seem to notice) and then starts speaking to the adults.

“So they’ve had dinner, but their sleep schedules have been difficult all week. I don’t think they took a nap today, so they should be tired soon. If there are any questions you can call this number here, but if there is an emergency please call local services as soon as possible. I’ll check up on you all in two days, and if everything goes well you’ll have occasional check ins for the next few months. The first night is the hardest, good luck!”

And then she’s gone. And they are alone with the babies. Stanley and Stanford are still sitting on the carpet, watching the twins like hawks for what feels like hours. They both feel this bubbling apprehension about just everything that could go wrong, but as the cuckoo clock ticks they feel relief. _They did it, the twins are here! And nothing went wrong!_

“They’re gonna need a bath,” Stanley says out of the blue. “And then we’ve got to feed them in the morning. And then we have to change them- Oh God Stanford what have we gotten into?” 

“Maybe- uh-” Stanford tries not to start panicking as well, because suddenly he’s aware that he has no idea what to do. “Maybe we just put them to bed tonight, and then worry about that stuff tomorrow?”

Stanley looks unsure, but then they notice how the twins are yawning occasionally and rubbing their eyes. 

“Yeah, you’re right Sixer,” he says, calming down. “They’ve had a long day, probably some sleep would be good for all of us.”

They stand up and share a supportive look, like _we might be new to this, but I’ve got your back,_ and suddenly two tired babies is no challenge for the Stan Twins.

“Alright you grab that one, I got this one.”

“Ready when you are.”

In hindsight, it seems normal to pick up two babies. Stanford would say that from an evolutionary standpoint, children should want to be held to guarantee safety. Stanley would say that Ma used to throw them both over her shoulders and then toss them into bed, and they liked that fine. But as they reach down and each grab a twin, Stanford with Mason and Stanley with Mabel, the babies realize they are being picked up and all hell breaks loose.

Mason starts shrieking almost immediately, startling Stanford into almost dropping him, which did not help matters. Mabel sees her brother’s distress and mirrors it, screaming and flailing her little arms as she tries to escape the hold.

“Hey kid- hold-”

“What did I-”

“OW! She kicked me!”

“Wait, no-”

Both brothers struggle to keep the twins from falling on floor, Mason flopping forward and full out crying now and Mabel squirming and screaming. Stanford frantically drops to one knee to keep the little boy from falling on his head, and Mason wriggles his way to the floor. Stanley holds the flailing girl away from his chest, trying to avoid her (surprisingly painful) little feet, and sets her back down. 

“What the hell? We didn’t do anything!” He says over the screams of stressed toddlers.

“Maybe uh-” Stanford tries to reason. “We surprised them? They don’t like being picked up?”

But now that they’re back on the floor, they’re going to calm down. Right? The brothers hope so.

_A few hours later…_

The twins don’t calm down. In fact Stanford wonders if this is the longest tantrum in recorded history. The babies roll around and kick the floor and _just keep screaming._ Stanley is glad that they don’t have any neighbors, or else the cops would have been called. Their little faces are red and wet tears and snot and drool, and every few minutes one will stop crying, take a shuddering breath (and their uncles will think, _oh God is it over?_ ) and then start crying all over again. 

The Stan twins sit on the couch uselessly, watching the endless tantrum. They’re both exhausted and miserable, ears ringing with the heartbreaking sobs of their niece and nephew. They’ve tried everything, but the babies aren’t hungry, don’t need to be changed, aren’t interested in any of the toys, and even leaving them alone won’t help them calm down. Oh, and don’t even think of trying to pick them, that’s a one-way ticket to make this ten times worse. So there’s nothing to do but just sit here and watch them cry. 

“Ma-ma! Ahhh Mam-ma!” 

Oh, and to make things even more sad, the twins have started crying for their parents.

Stanford is running through possibilities in his head. Maybe they have some undiagnosed condition that makes them cry forever? Maybe they’re allergic to the carpet cleaner? Maybe they’re hypersensitive to changes in electromagnetic fields? At this point the possibilities are endless and it doesn’t make sitting here any easier. 

And then Stanley puts his face in his hands and his shoulders tremor slightly. 

“They hate us,” he says, voice gruff with emotion.

“No- no don’t say that,” Stanford says, but he kind of wants to cry about it too. “Stanley, they don’t know us yet,” he tries, laying a six-fingered hand on his brother’s shoulder. 

“Yeah,” the other says, trying to pull himself together. He wipes his blurry eyes and jokes “If I was the size of a traffic cone, I wouldn’t want some old guy picking me up either.”

“And their brains are about as developed as relatively smart bamboo lemur,” Stanford says. “And they scream at a tree stumps.”

The humor is short-lived as the little ones keep crying.

“Maybe we should call that number.”

“If that lady sees them like this, she’ll think we traumatized them.”

They both know that they might lose the kids if anything goes wrong in the next few days. And at this rate… well it’s hard to think straight with two kids screaming at mach ten.

And then blessedly, amazingly, there is one full moment of silence as both babies pause to take a breath. They’re lying on the floor, in a puddle of their own misery, hair even more disarray and faces even stickier than when they came here. But they are quietly heaving for air, and strangely looking at each other. 

Their uncles stand up and approach slowly, wondering if they’ve suddenly gone mute. 

But just as Mason is about to start crying again, mouth open and face scrunching up, Mabel reaches over and shoves her binky in his mouth. The Stans wait for a new cry of distress, but there is none, only the quiet hum of a calming baby.

"That doesn't seem sanitary."

"Hey if he's not crying I don't care."

Mason visibly relaxes, reaching out to his sister and clutching her hand. Mabel is quaking with sniffles and hiccups, but crawls closer to her brother’s side. 

“Is it- is it over?” Stanford whispers, peering at the twins from a safe distance.

“Holy shi-” Stanley starts to say under his breath.

“Shhhh! Don’t say that.”

“Don’t _shh_ me- Hey what’s that?”

Both twins are rubbing their eyes, over-exhausted by their tantrum but still fighting sleep, and the uncles notice a pink mark on Mason’s forehead. 

Worried that he may have scratched himself or worse, Stanley and Stanford approach slowly, worried that one misstep will sent the twins into tears. But the babies have settled down now, their eyelids heavy as they blink up at their great uncles. Bravely, Stanley reaches down and brushes the sweaty curls off Mason’s forehead.

“Is that a birthmark?”

“It looks like the big Dipper.”

Hearing that, the little boy’s eyes light up and he cocks his head to the side as he sucks happily on the binky. 

Mabel also responds, flapping her hands and saying “Dippa! Dip-dip!

And the older men are trying not to cry again, because the babies are actually looking at them and _not screaming_. 

“Well look at that, must be his nickname!” Stanley says, relieved and elated as Mabel giggles and keeps babbling.

“Yes, he wasn’t very responsive to Mason anyway,” Stanford notes.

“Well, that solves one mystery,” Stanley says. “Ey, lil’ Dipper? Were you mad ‘cause we didn’t know your name?” he teases the boy. 

Then the baby pulls out his binky and Stanford wants to strangle his brother if this kid starts crying again. But Mason (or, Dipper now) angrily purses his mouth and spits up at his great uncle, getting slobber all over his face. Mabel shrieks excitedly and starts spitting too, blowing raspberries at her brother.

The twins dissolve into giggles and Stanford clutches his chest, overwhelmed with thanking every benevolent cosmic force in the universe. Stanley throws an arm over his shoulder and grins. 

“We did it Sixer,” he says softly, still watching the twins as they settle and their laughter quiets down. 

“We really didn’t do anything,” Stanford mumbles, knowing that in any experiment, several hours of damage is not fixed by two minutes of progress.

But despite his logical pessimism, this does feel like a success.

The little twins fall asleep on the floor a few minutes later, and their uncles are too nervous to try to move them again. So they lay out some baby blankets and pile a few stuffed toys near them. And then the elder twins also end up sleeping on the floor, too busy watching the babies to go to bed. 

The first night is the hardest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ey i don't know how adopting works in real life so don't tell me this is inaccurate


	3. 2001 Part 3

_Summer, 2001_

Early morning sunlight streams into the living room, waking Stanford up too soon. He rolls over to evade the light and gets a face full of carpet fibers, and that really makes him jolt awake. It takes a moment to gather his bearings, waking up in an unfamiliar place setting off his latent paranoia. He frantically adjusts his glasses and blinks a few times, and then his vision settles on two little sleeping lumps on the floor.

 _Oh,_ he remembers. _The twins._

Looking to the side he sees his brother also asleep across the carpet. Stanford checks his watch, but then remembers that he reprogrammed it to track the gravitational pull of Jupiter, so it’s not much help. The cuckoo clock says it’s half past 3 pm, but he doesn't trust its accuracy. He doesn’t usually get a full night of sleep anyway, but last night with the babies had exhausted him much more than quantum physics. 

Then there is a little whine from one of the kids, Mabel maybe, and she rolls over to her stomach before falling back into deep sleep. Stanford watch, holding his breath like any little noise could wake her. When she settles again he relaxes, but he senses that they won’t be asleep for much longer. 

“Stanley,” he whispers, shaking his brother’s shoulder. “Stanley, wake up.”

“Huh?” the other man says, sitting up too quickly. “What’s wrong? Who’s money?”

“What?- Shhh!” Stanford shushes him, pointing to the kids. 

Stanley squints and rubs his eyes, but then sees the babies stirring.

“Oh, yeah- What time is it?” he says quietly, voice groggy with sleep. 

“I don’t know, but they’ll be awake soon.”

Stanley nods and gestures to the kitchen. Both men get up slowly, trying not to make any noise but also with the aches and pains from sleeping on the floor.

“Why’d we get so old?” 

“We agreed that jumping the fountain of youth was too risky without further testing.”

They get to the kitchen, keeping watchful eyes on the twins through the doorway. 

“They need to be changed, and breakfast… and maybe a bath?” Stanford makes a mental list, pacing across the room and back. 

“Well, let's feed ‘em first,” Stanley slumps down at the table, yawning. “Get on their good side. Make some coffee will ya’?”

“They are too young to have coffee!” 

“For us, genius. I can’t think this early and you’re about to walk into the wall.”

“Oh, right.”

As the coffee brews they talk quietly about what to feed the kids, deciding on oatmeal being easy enough to make and not a choking hazard. It's bubbling away on the stove when they hear the whines and huffs of two sleepy toddlers waking up. 

“Should we feed them in the living room?” Stanford asks, anxious about trying to move them again.

“Sixer, they’ve been in that same spot all night. They need to get used to the house,” his brother says. “Here, you finish the food and I’ll get the little niblings in here.”

“How?” he asks wearily.

Stanley grabs some bottles out of the cabinet, saying “I’ve got a plan,” with a wink. 

Filling the bottles with orange juice, he walks back to the living room and Stanford wonders if he can really con two cranky toddlers into the kitchen. Well, Stanley has surprised him before. He silently prepares for another tantrum. 

“Mabel, Dipper,” Stanley calls just as the twins are sitting up. 

Their curls are tangled and some carpet lint is sticking to them in weird places. Sometime in the night Mabel had kicked off her shoes, and Dipper looks less than happy to be awake. They also have drool on their chins and don’t smell _great_ , so yeah, they need a bath and some new clothes. 

_One thing at a time._

“Hey kiddos,” Stanley says, putting some cautious enthusiasm in his voice. “You two hungry?”

The twins just blink up at him silently. 

“Yeesh, that’s creepy,” he says to himself. “How ‘bout this” he tries, holding out one of the bottles and waving it in their faces. 

That actually gets their interest, eyes following the movement curiously. Dipper is more resistant, looking but still shying away from the offer. Mabel is easier to convince, reaching out for the bottle after a moment. Stanley lets her have it, only for her to start shaking it and giggling at the sloshing sound it makes.

“Just drink it kid,” the uncle says when she turns it over and some drops of juice dribble out. Well, they’re already sticky so what difference does it make?

But she does pop the nipple in her mouth and start sucking, trilling happily at the taste.

Seeing his sister with it seems to make Dipper more willing to try, and Stanley holds out the other bottle to him.

“You want this, do ya?” He says, holding it just out of his reach and stepping back a few feet. “You gotta come get it Dipper.”

The boy pouts, lip quivering like he’s going to start crying again (and Stanley thinks, _oh no, I’ve fucked up now_ ) but then gives a frustrated huff and awkwardly gets up to his feet. The older man grinds his teeth silently, hoping the kid doesn’t topple right over, but Dipper takes a few wobbling steps forward for the bottle. 

“That’s it little man. C’mon,” Stanley says, glad that his knowledge of human nature applies to toddlers. If someone has something you don’t, then you’ll just want it more. 

Mabel sees her brother walking away from her and makes a distressed noise, but instead of crying she rushes up to follow after him. 

“That’s it, this way,” their uncle encourages them, letting Dipper have the bottle when he gets extra impatient for it. “Now over here-No not that way.”

Stanford watches from the kitchen doorway, endeared to see his twin slowly usher the kids into the kitchen. Their eyes roam around the new space, drinking from their bottles and looking up to the too-tall counter tops. 

“Is that ready yet?” Stanley says, surprising his brother out of his trance. Something about the little twins is just so fascinating. 

“Yes, I’m just letting it cool off for them,” he says dishing up some oatmeal into little baby bowls, with even tinier baby spoons. He knew babies were basically just small humans, but this is getting ridiculous. 

There are two highchairs parked at the table, but after last night’s fiasco, putting the twins in them seems like an uphill battle. 

“Alright, distract them,” Stanley says suddenly, sneaking up behind the unsuspecting kids.

“What?- uh-” Stanford says, trying to catch their attention. “Dipper, Mabel, um-”

The other man looks unimpressed by the attempt, but at least the twins look up and don’t try to escape under the table for a second. In the fastest way he can, Stanley gets one arm around each twin and plucks them off the floor. Dipper shrieks and drops his bottle, and Mabel immediately starts kicking again, but before they know it they are plopped into each highchair. They still don’t see happy with that, looking around and starting to squirm.

“Five second rule,” Stanley mumbles as he grabs the bottle off the (clean) floor and shoves it back in Dipper’s mouth. When Mabel still won’t settle, reaching out to her brother, he moves the highchairs closer together. 

Both men take note of the immediate way both kids calm down, it seems that as long as they’re close together and have something to do, they’ll be content. 

Stanley flops down to a chair with a heave, relieved to have survived the trip with no casualties. 

“Mission accomplished?” Stanford ribs his brother lightly, who gives him a sarcastic salute back.

“Yeah, now it’s your turn Poindexter. Feed them,” he says, putting his feet up on the table. 

“Fine,” Stanford says, setting the two bowls on the highchair trays.

The babies look at the bowls of mush, thoroughly unimpressed. 

“...They’re not doing anything,” Stanford says after a moment. “How do I get them to eat?”

“I don’t know! Do I look like a baby expert to you?”

“Well, I suppose not. Dipper, Mabel, what you have there is food, and you need to eat it because…” and then he tries to explain the scientific reasons for eating breakfast. To babies. 

“Lecturing them isn’t gonna help, dingus,” Stanley interrupts. 

And the twins don’t seem very enthused to listen.

“Oh, of course,” Stanford thinks again, knowing that in some situations hands-on intervention is more effective than logical reasoning. _I can do this._

So he picks up the spoon in Mabel’s bowl and gets a small scoop of oatmeal on it.

“Come on Mabel,” he says, holding the spoonful up to her mouth. “Just try it.”

She sucks on her bottle for a moment, considering but curious enough to set it down and open her mouth. Stanford puts the bite in her mouth and she slurps it up, before making a face and immediately spitting it back out. 

Her great uncle subsequently gets sprayed with little flecks of oats, which her other great uncle finds very funny.

“I don’t think she likes it,” Stanford says, deadpan as Stanley laughs at him.

Dipper and Mabel also think it’s pretty funny, giggling and spitting at each other.

“Well duh, it’s just plain oatmeal,” Stanley says, getting up from the table and going to the cabinet. He comes back with a bag of mini marshmallows. 

“Here you picky brats, try this,” He says, putting a handful of marshmallows in their bowls. 

“That’s too much sugar.”

“It won’t kill them, lighten up.”

Stanford rolls his eyes and tries again, get a spoonful of oatmeal with a marshmallow on top. Mabel turns away from it at first, but her curiosity wins out in the end. She opens her mouth again and actually chews it this time, making a promising hum and swallowing. This time she opens up eagerly for more. 

“That’a girl,” Stanford says, smiling to himself as he feeds her another spoonful.

Now that Dipper sees his sister eating the weird stuff in front of them, he starts looking at his own dish. 

“Here, one second Mable,” the man says, setting down her spoon to grab her brother’s.

The boy is a little more resistant to it, eyeing it with distaste and not wanting to put down his bottle. But after a little fussing, Stanford basically shoves the spoon into his mouth. Dipper finally eats it and seems pleasantly surprised. 

Mabel makes an impatient noise when her brother gets another bite and she doesn’t. 

“I’m going to need another set of hands here Stanley,” he says, trying to move between each twin quickly. 

“No, wait. They’re figuring it out,” the other man says.

And indeed Dipper has decided he doesn’t want to wait anymore and picks up his spoon, uncoordinated but able to get most of a spoonful in his mouth. Mabel reaches up to grab the spoon from Stanford’s hand and he lets her have it. 

From there the twins feed themselves, smearing some oats on their face and eating all the marshmallows first. Stanford steps back into a chair and sinks down, watching them eat and babble to each other. 

He should probably get up and wipe the spit up oatmeal off himself, and Stanley had meant to go refill his coffee. But instead they both sit there and just watch. And neither of them start to tear up, no way. 

After breakfast the kids are livelier, wanting to explore through the house. 

“You get back here,” Stanley says, catching Mabel before she can run out of the bathroom again. Dipper stamps his feet on the tile and tries to escape as well.

Stanford is filling up the bathtub, keeping the water only slightly warm and splashing in some bubble bath soap. Changing the twins had been… not fun. And they now need this bath to get all the sweat and oatmeal off them. 

They have developed a more effective way to carry the babies, though it is pretty inefficient. Basically each of the uncles have to grab one of the twins, quickly before they start flailing wildly, and then they have to walk with the two close enough that they can still reach each other. It’s slightly more difficult than a three-legged race, with the added variable of fussy babies. 

But finally they get the twins into the tub, Mabel splashing around and popping bubbles while Dipper plays with some floating boats.

The bath goes relatively smoothly, except Stanley gets splashed with a gallon of water, and Stanford is considers creating his own formula for “no more tears” shampoo that actually doesn’t sting their eyes.

It ends with two clean babies running naked through the living room, but they are screeching with laughter.

By the time the twins are dressed again (oh, and Mabel will only wear clothes that she gets to pick out herself, meaning there is a trail of pink baby clothes across the floor) it’s almost noon. Thankfully Stanley has the Mystery Shack closed for the next few days and Stanford put his experiments in stasis. But they are finally settling down, playing again in the living room and starting to get sleepy. 

And _damn_ , are the Stan twins tired. More tired than either can remember being in the last twenty years, even more than when they stayed up to catch the nocturnal pygmy werewolf in the woods. But despite that, they are just… really happy. 

“Hopefully those little munchkins take a nap soon,” Stanley says, watching them fondly over his (third) cup of coffee. 

“Yes, maybe we can get them upstairs by then,” Stanford says from the kitchen. “Hey, look at this.”

He’s been at the table investigating the cardboard box that the social worker brought them. Inside are things that must have come with the twins from California. Some clothes, a couple toys that the babies were excited to have again, and the like. But at the bottom is a thick manila envelope.

Stanley makes sure the kids stay put in the living room before coming over. 

“Eh? What’s that?”

Inside the envelope are a stack of photos of various sizes. Laying them out on the table, the uncles see a collection of pictures of the twins. There dates on the backs, starting with a blurry sonogram of two lumps, and then bundled up newborns in the hospital months later. There are more recent ones too, where the kids are playing at the beach with sunscreen on their noses. Then there are pictures with their parents, Mabel and her mother sticking their tongues out at the camera, Dipper on his father’s shoulders, both twins asleep between their parents.

Stanley sifts through the photos and tries not to get too misty-eyed about it. The kids don’t need to see that, he thinks. But then he looks up to see the same look on Stanford’s face. They don’t need to say anything.

The twins are a hassle to get to bed, and will not fall asleep until their uncles push the cribs together so they can reach each other through the bars. But while they sleep, their great uncles tape the pictures on the nursery walls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from here on it will just be like, drabbles with light plot


	4. 2002

_ Summer, 2002 _

Stanford is just barely hanging onto sleep, rolling over in bed to avoid the morning light, when he distantly hears his brother say “Pumpkin, go wake Ford up for breakfast.”

And somewhere in his semi-conscious brain he knows that continuing to sleep is futile, but he still tries. 

Mabel comes running into his room, little feet thumping on the floor as she shouts “Up Up Up!”

“Ughhhh…” his protests are met with cheerful giggles.

Finally the man concedes to waking as a squirming almost-three year old climbs up into the bed and sits heavily on his stomach. 

“Ooof! Good morning Mabel,” he says, putting a steady hand on her back to keep her still. 

Stanford rubs his face, the rough scrape of stubble reminding him that he should shave soon, if he finds the time. He reaches for his glasses on the bedside table, but his niece already has them and awkwardly tries to put them over his eyes.

“Thank you Sweetheart,” He says, adjusting the frames so he can see her smiling face.

“Ford! Get up! Pam-pakes!” She insists, baby teeth shining bright in her mouth as she starts jumping on him again.

“Alright, Alright!” he says, sitting up and tickling under her arms until she is howling with laughter. “Burnt pancakes sound great.”

“I heard that Sixer!” Stanley yells, standing in the doorway. He’s holding Dipper in one arm and brandishing a spatula like a weapon. “Those are fightin' words.”

Stanford rolls his eyes and gets up, balancing Mabel on his hip and following his brother to the kitchen.

The twins are still in their footie pajamas, insisting that they can climb into their highchairs all on their own. The pancakes are mostly not burnt, so Stanford is pretty impressed with his brother, knowing he wouldn’t do much better himself. Besides, it’s nice to wake up to a hot breakfast, even if it involves the twins getting syrup on everything in reach. 

It’s been over a year since they adopted Dipper and Mabel and the twins’ third birthday is coming up in a few weeks. It took a while to adjust to the change, meaning a lot of tantrums, accidents, and sleepless nights for all four of them. 

But steadily it got better. Dipper and Mabel’s separation anxiety improved when they got used to the new space and people, and then their personalities started to show. Mabel with her constant excitement and affection, wanting to play with  _ every  _ toy, animal, and person she comes across. And Dipper, enthusiastically babbling in baby talk and endless curiosity to know what’s going on. 

Even during the toddler’s worst crying fits, their great uncles are completely smitten. The first time the twins reached out to be picked up, Stanley hand to leave the room because he was blubbering too loud. When the twins started talking to them, in broken but distinct words, Stanford recorded them and backed up the footage on three different harddrives. 

Now that the kids were talking the uncles have decided to go by Stan and Ford, which is a lot easier for them to say. And the men have their own nicknames for the kids, the niblings, munchkins, ankle-biters, and the like. Stan also likes to call Mabel Pumpkin while Ford prefers Sweetheart, but they both say Lil’ Dipper and ruffle his hair, just to see the boy stamp his feet indignantly.

So yeah, the twins are perfect. Perfect, sweet, smart, loud, moody, hyper, needy, and everything in between. 

_ But the household routine is… not great,  _ Ford thinks, slumping over the table. He looks over his coffee mug at his twin to see a matching look of exhaustion on his face. Turns out that running a business, investigating paranormal anomalies, and raising toddlers is a 25 hour-a-day job. Forget getting eight hours of sleep a night, they’re lucky to get ten minutes of uninterrupted silence. 

_ It might be killing us,  _ Stan thinks, trying to work out a painful kink in his neck as he reads the newspaper. He probably should go get dressed and spruce up the Mystery Shack a little before the first wave of tourists come through. Really he would rather stay in sweatpants all day and play with the kids, but that doesn’t pay the bills.

After breakfast the twins are sticky from foreheads to finger-tips, so Ford wrangles them into the bathroom and wipes them down as best he can. They sit on the counter and brush their little teeth while their uncle tames their hair, putting Mabel’s into pigtails. 

Usually Stan will wake up with the kids and make breakfast, letting his twin get a little more sleep after a late night in the lab. Then Ford takes over and gets them clean and dressed for the day, though sometimes they just stay in pajamas until the afternoon. It’s best that the twins stay out of the shack while people are there, and the basement lab is too dangerous to have them there. 

So Ford has to entertain them for the first half of the day, parking them in the living room with sippy cups and toys. Then after the shack closes Stan will take over, making dinner and getting the kids ready for bed while Ford works in the basement. 

Most children’s television programs are either creepy or annoying, and Gravity Falls public access will just melt their young brains, so the uncle puts on a nature documentary for them to watch.  Or sometimes he’ll need to put some time in his research, so he has a playpen in his bedroom for the kids while he works at his desk (he rolled up the experiment #78 carpet and stored it in the closet so they don’t have two body switching toddlers to worry about). He doesn’t get much work done like this though, because Mabel doesn’t like to stay in one place and Dipper wants to see what he’s doing. 

He made them some complex puzzle toys that light up and make noise to stimulate their cognitive development, and has been very impressed with the results. Already their logical reasoning and creative problem solving skills are surpassing their age level. 

But eventually they get bored of playing inside and start going stir crazy, so Ford takes them to the backyard. By now Stan is giving the second or third tour of the day, and the twins will be winding down for a nap soon. It’s a hot day so Ford turns on the sprinkler for them, letting them run around sopping wet and get grass stains on their knees. 

While they play Ford keeps a sharp eye on the forest around the house, watching for any sudden movements or ominous shadows. The great uncles have done their best to keep the kids safe from the many mysteries of Gravity Falls, but that’s not easy.

Like last Summerween Stan thought it would be cute to dress the twins up as gnomes. And yeah, it was pretty cute and Ford took approximately 200 pictures of them stumbling around with their little pointy hats and fake beards. But then the real gnomes thought the twins were part of their clan and kidnapped them, so Stan and Ford had to track them down and kick a bunch of angry gnomes in the process. The kids were fine, but now they’ve got some eternal gnome vendetta against their family or something. Plus whatever other monsters lurk in the forest.

Around noon the twins start slowing down, playing with their toy dinosaurs and ponies in the grass.

“Alright munchkins,” Ford says, scooping the kids while they’re sleepy and pliant. “Time for a nap.”

“Noooo!” They complain, but put up no real resistance to laying down on the couch. 

Literally a minute later they are both fast asleep, curled up and drooling on their favorite blankets. Ford sighs heavily, envious of their ability to sleep so peacefully. He brushes the stray curls back from their rosy faces, never self-conscious about his freakish hands around the kids. Dipper and Mable never flinch away or stare at his fingers, just reach up to be held with bright smiles. 

They probably will be down for an hour, maybe more if they got to bed late last night. Ford usually uses nap time as time to get some serious work done, like developing a new formula for dark matter or recording unexplained changes in the stratosphere. But for the last few nights he’s been exploring the Dark Crystal Caves on the outskirts of town, and then coming home well into the early morning, so he’s running on about three hours of sleep.

He walks, as quietly as possible, away from the twins and settles in the armchair nearby. Maybe he can just rest his eyes for a little. In one of the multiple parenting books he speedread, it said that you should sleep while the baby sleeps to avoid burnout. Of course that was intended for mothers and newborns that wake up every two hours, but he’s sure it’s applicable to uncles and hyper toddlers. 

_ I’ll just rest for a few minutes _ , Ford thinks as he drifts off.

_ An hour later…  _

Stan is giving another tour through the Mystery Shack, a forced salesman smile across his face and listening to the crowd  _ Ooo  _ and  _ Awh _ at the crocodile-monkey and rock-that-looks-like-a-face-rock. He has the start of a migraine aching in his head and he just wants to close shop and hang with the kids all night. But the cash register is filling up steadily, so Stan supposes that he can last a few more hours. 

And then he hears a familiar laugh in the distance and two sets of tiny feet running down the hall. He turns to see Dipper and Mabel, looking well-rested from their nap and following the noise in the Mystery Shack. 

Stan has to think quick before the twins get trampled by stupid tourists, so he slides over to the side and turns away from the crowd. The twins jump up excitedly when they see him and he sweeps them up into his arms.

“And now ladies and gentleman, I present the most dangerous creatures in all of Oregon…” he says ominously, before turning dramatically with the kids. “The most adorable twins in the world! Look, there’s two of them!”

This bit always does great with the crowds, mostly because stupid people are easily impressed, but also because they are the best babies in the world (Stan might be biased). They do him the favor of looking extra cute for the crowd, Mabel smiling bright and waving and Dipper going shy and hiding in Stan’s shoulder. People are so endeared that they are literally throwing money at them.

“Alright people, go get some souvenirs,” Stan says after catching a pocketful of cash. “If they kids work any longer it’s considered child labor.” 

And with that the crowd laughs and disperses around the gift shop. 

“Good job kids, now what’d you do with uncle smartypants?” Stan says, pulling a few crumpled bills from they’re little fists. He tries to keep his tone light, but there’s a creeping worry in his voice. “Did he get chased up a tree by a wendigo again?”

On cue, a very disheveled Ford came running down the hall into the gift shop, shouting “Stanley! I can’t find the kids- Oh!” 

“Relax Poindexter, they just wandered in,” Stan says, letting his brother catch his breath.

“Oh thank goodness,” Ford says, looking more tired and panicked than he’s been in years. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to doze off like that, I just-”

Dipper and Mabel start squirming around in Stan’s arms, wanting to get down and explore the Mystery Shack. Stan lets them down to their feet, but tries to keep them caged in between their uncles. 

“Don’t worry about it, but you look pretty beat,” Stan says, remembering the last time his brother looked so stressed and sleep deprived (the winter of 1982, when he was afraid a triangle man would steal his eyes). “Hey if you need a break I can watch the kids, or- well,” he starts to offer, but the twins are already trying to escape and there’s a line of impatient people forming at the register. 

“No, I’m fine,” Ford insists, adjusting his glasses anxiously. 

“Stanford, you need to sleep sometime-” 

“Well you can’t run the Shack with the kids. Who knows what could happen if you’re not watching them!”

_ “Uh, excuse me- Oh hey little dude, whatcha’ got there?”  _ A small voice says, but the old men are too busy arguing to pay attention.

“If I’m not watching them!? They ran in here because  _ you  _ fell asleep!”

_ “A pterodactyl? And an airplane? The ultimate face off between nature and machine…” _

“It was a mistake! I won’t let it happen- Where’d the twins go?” 

“What!?”

Amidst their argument both uncles failed to notice that Dipper and Mabel have disappeared from between them. Frantically they look around the shop, worried that they’ve been trampled or kidnapped or worse-

But they don’t have to look far to see the twins sitting on the floor, playing with a pudgy young boy near the entrance. 

“Hey kid, what are you doing,” Stan says, probably a little too gruffly as the boy startles. 

“Oh! Um- I just was bringing back this screwdriver I found,” he says quickly, pulling out a screwdriver labeled  _ Mystery Shack. _ “Some weird kids dropped it and then disappeared. And then these little dudes were showing me their toys,” he explains, making nervous gestures and awkwardly laughing.

Ford looks skeptical but takes the screwdriver from the kid anyway, saying “Well thank you I suppose, but I should be taking the twins back.” He goes to pick up the two toddlers, but they seem content to play on the floor with their new friend. 

“Wait a minute Sixer,” Stan says, an idea gleaming in his eye. “What’s your name kid?”

“Uh, my friends call me Soos,” the boy says, and then Mabel starts pulling on the pocket of his shorts. “Oh, you want one of these?” he asks, pulling out a dinosaur shaped cookie and gives it to the little girl. She squeals and eats it messily while Soos also gives one to her brother. 

“Hmm, well I’m Stan Pines and this is my brother Ford, and those little rugrats are Mabel and Dipper,” Stan says, while Ford looks at him like  _ what the hell are you doing. _

“Do you dudes like, live here? That’s so cool! This is the most awesome place I’ve ever seen,” Soos says, excited as he looks around the oddities in the shack.

“You don’t get out much, do you?” Ford deadpans. 

“Shut it,” Stan cuts him off, before turning to the young boy. “Look kid, I’m gonna level with ya’. Do you ever babysit?”

“Stanley, what-?” Ford says, pulling on his twin’s shoulder.

“Yeah! I mean, I watch my little cousins when my Abulita has bingo night,” Soos answers eagerly. “So, kinda.”

“Interesting…” Stan taps his chin.

“Would you excuse us Soos,” Ford says, yanking Stan over to whisper-yell at him. “You. Cannot. Pay a child. To watch the twins-” 

“I’ll have you know I wasn’t going to pay him,” Stan whispers back.

“Stanley!”

“What? Look at them!”

And when they turn they see that the twins have pulled out a box of crayons and paper, asking Soos to draw things for them.

“Ghost!” Dipper insists.

“One ghost coming up Dipper, do you want it scary, or of the Pac Man variety?” Soos says, picking up a crayon and flicking out his tongue to focus. 

“Princess pony ghost!” Mabel shouts.

“Alright! Thinking outside the white sheet Mabel,” the boy starts drawing as the twins lean over his shoulder, shouting out other things they want in the picture.

It is pretty impressive for someone to take so easily to the hyper toddlers. 

“Even so, that boy is too young-” Ford tries to argue again, but he lacks his previous fervor. 

“Soos, how old are you, like nine?” Stan calls over.

“Uh, actually I’m twelve, today. It’s my birthday,” he looks up from the…  _ interesting _ picture he and the twins are drawing.

“See! When we were twelve we found the Jersey Devil and got three different rabies shots,” Stan says. “He can watch two kids.”

“I beg to differ,” Ford thinks that it’s not an apt comparison. 

“Kid can you open bags of fruit snacks and turn on a Disney movie?” Stan asks.

To be fair, that is probably what Ford would be doing with the kids right now.

“Yeah, but can I also have fruit snacks and watch the movie?”

“You bet,” Stan says before turning back to his brother, this time looking earnest. “Stanford, I know you’re worried. But you need to sleep and I need to be here, and this kid is a natural with the twins. Soos here can watch them in the afternoon until I close the shack, and then you can go do all your science mumbo-jumbo.”

“...Well maybe this could work. Just for a couple days- two hours at most,” Ford concedes after a moment, feeling the pull of exhaustion on his brain. It would be nice to have a couple extra hours to catch up on sleep and get some work done. “After their nap.”

“That’s the spirit!” Stan slaps him on the back, relieved to see his twin relax for once. “Hey Soos, can you be here, like a few days a week?” he asks, and then Ford elbows him in the side , so he adds “We’ll pay you uh- almost minimum wage.”

“Really? I can come here and hang out with the little dudes?” Soos says, eyes lit up with joy. “Like I work here?”

“Sure, whatever floats your boat.”

“Totally Mr. Pines!” he exclaims.

The twins feed off his excitement, jumping up and pulling him towards more toys in the living room. 

“Cool. Here have a T-shirt,” Stan says, throwing him a large question mark shirt. If he’s going to work here then he might as look like it. “It counts as your first paycheck.”

“Awesome!”

“Now you-” Stan turns to his brother, pointing a finger into his chest. “Get to bed before I drag you there myself, I’ve got another tour to give in ten minutes!”

“Stanley, I still have some reservations...” Ford says, but allows himself to be pushed back into the main house. 

“And I’ll listen to them when you wake up Poindexter. Trust me,” Stan assures him.

“Soos! Soos! Soos!” The twins shout as he makes the tallest tower of block ever and they knock it down.

Ford wants to stay and make sure everything goes smoothly, but suddenly he’s in his room and falling into bed. He’s out as soon as his head hits the pillow. 

_ A few more hours later… _

Ford wakes up in a daze, disoriented from sleeping so deeply in the middle of the day. Looking towards the window, he sees that the sun is just starting to set, so at least he hadn’t slept too long.

Rubbing his eyes he comes out to the living room to see the TV on, playing some Disney movie, and toys and drawing scattered across the floor. Stan is sitting in the armchair, both twins lounging in his lap with their sippy cups. On the table is a box with half a pizza in it, and Soos is sitting on the floor, watching the movie as well. 

“Look who’s back from the dead,” Stan greets him, to which Ford just groans.

He drops down on the couch and adjusts his glasses, and Dipper squirms away from Stan to climb onto Ford’s lap.

“So how’d it go,” he says after a moment, voice still rough with sleep. 

Soos looks up, gulping down a bite of pizza before saying, “Really great dude- uh, I mean Mr. Pines, those kids are wicked good at jenga.”

Ford can only blink at the idea of clumsy two year olds being good at jenga.

“Well, wonderful.”

“Hey Soos, after the movie do you need a ride home?” Stan asks after a moment.

“Yeah Mr. Pines, if that’s okay,” Soos says. “Tomorrow I’ll bring some of my action figures and more of Abulita’s cookies.”

And then they watch the movie for a while, the babies settling easily after such an exciting day. Ford hugs Dipper against his chest, and Stan has Mabel cuddled into his arms. 

He’s glad he trusted Stan, because this is perfect. 


	5. 2004

_ Fall, 2004 _

Dipper and Mabel’s fifth birthday comes at the end of August, marked by a day at the lake with cake and icecream and presents. Soos chased them around with waterballoos and they fought back with squirt guns, and then they all fell asleep in the car on the way home. Stan and Ford took enough pictures to fill an entire album. 

But their birthday marks the end of Summer, and with that comes the twins’ first day of kindergarten. It had been a sore subject for their guardians, as both Stan and Ford had reservations about sending them to school. Ford has his doubts about the quality of the Gravity Falls school system, and Stan doesn’t like the idea of leaving the kids with strangers all day. They had talked about just homeschooling the kids, as Ford already taught them how to read and Stan taught them basic math (by counting money out of the register). But they both realize that the twins need to develop some social skills, and just talking to Soos and the people in the Mystery Shack isn’t good enough. 

When the day finally comes the twins wake up early and getting dressed all on their own. At breakfast Dipper asks about a million questions, wanting to know if they get to learn about aliens and if the school library has any mystery books. Ford tries to let him down easy, but he can appreciate Dipper’s enthusiasm for school. 

On the other hand, Mabel is being uncharacteristically quiet as she stirs her cereal.

“Hey Pumpkin, what’s got you down?” Stan asks.

“Nothing,” she huffs, pushing her unruly curls back from her face.

The uncles glance at each other across the table, knowing just the thing to cheer her up.

“Well I guess you should go put some stickers on your new notebook...” Stan says casually, smiling behind his newspaper as she jumps up excitedly and rushes up to her room.

When she comes back down Ford pulls her hair back in braids (turns out that six-fingered hands are very adept at braiding) while she puts exactly twenty-seven puffy stickers on her notebook.

They pile the kids into the car with their backpacks and lunchboxes and buckle them in, and then their eyes meet over the hood. 

“I can’t do this,” Stan says suddenly, his chest tight and fists clenching. 

“No Stanley, look at me,” Ford says quickly, checking to make sure the twins can’t hear them. “We _ can _ do this,” he promises, but even he sounds unsure. He knows Stan is super protective of the kids, not that Ford isn’t, but they can’t keep them in the house for the rest of their lives. 

“Can’t they just start next year?” Stan says, wringing his hands and knowing he doesn’t have much of an argument. 

“They’re ready,” Ford says firmly. “They are smart and creative, and can speak up for themselves and you taught them how to punch someone in the face which I still think is inappropriate but whatever.”

“Heh, yeah…” Stan chuckles at the memory, breathing a little easier. “They’re gonna be fine,” he says in a resolved tone, kicking at the dirt beneath their feet. 

“And we’re going to be fine,” Ford insists, putting a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Besides we get to come pick them up in a couple hours.”

“Oh, yeah.” 

The car ride is relatively quiet, but as they pull up to the elementary school the twins get more excited, asking questions and pointing at things they see. Stan parks the car in a clearly marked  _ No Parking Zone _ , but Ford chooses not argue about it. They take the kids to the kindergarten classroom, trying to keep a hand on Mabel so she doesn’t go running to the playground. There are tons of kids running around and parents herding them through the halls, and a nice-looking teacher trying to flag them all down.

All the chaos is kind of overstimulating for the twins, making them both stick by their uncles. Mabel is holding onto her notebook against her chest like a shield, tapping her light-up sneakers anxiously. Dipper is clinging to Ford’s pant leg like it’s a lifeline. 

When it’s finally time for the kids to go into the class Stan and Ford have to gently pry the kids away from them, even when they start whimpering like kicked puppies. Mabel reaches out to be picked up and Ford feels his own resolve crack, so he knows Stan is a second away from giving in. 

“Now listen you two,” Ford says, getting down to their level. “You are going to do great, and learn things, and have fun. And if you’re nervous, just stick together-”

“Grunkle Ford, are you crying?” Dipper interrupts.

“No I just have something in my eye,” He covers quickly, adjusting his glasses and standing up so they don’t see. “We’ll be back to get you at three, Come on Stanley.”

And then he has to basically drag his twin brother out of the school before they both start crying in public. In the car they sob like babies. 

_ A few hours later _ … 

Both Stan and Ford get basically no work done while the kids are at school. Instead they sit and in the kitchen, anxiously drinking coffee and looking at old pictures of Dipper and Mabel. It’s not really the best coping mechanism. 

When three o’clock rolls around Stan basically speeds through the school zone and Ford doesn’t tell him to slow down. A bunch of kids flood out from the halls and into the school yard, and the uncles wonder how they're ever supposed to find the twins in the crowd. 

They don’t have to look very far, because Mabel comes running towards them with a big smile on her face and Dipper comes trudging along behind her. 

“Grunkle Stan! Grunkle Ford! Kindergarten is so awesome! I met these other girls who liked my stickers and like snap bracelets and glitter and tacos…” She continues babbling to her uncles, jumping up and down at their feet. 

Both are glad to see her so excited, but they also notice the way Dipper walks over silently with his head down. 

“Hey Dipper, how’d it go today?” Ford asks cautiously.

The little boy just shrugs and kicks rocks, saying “Can we just go home now?”

Stan and Ford don’t even have to look at each other to know something is up.

The ride home is accompanied by Mabel describing everything they did in class in very specific detail, while Dipper slumped down in his seat. When they get into the shack, Mabel wants to go play outside, but Ford redirects her. 

“Hey Mable, how about you go change so you don’t get mud on your school clothes,” he says, sending her up the stairs. That buys them at least ten minutes. 

Dipper goes to follow her upstairs, but Stan sweeps him off the floor and sits him on the kitchen table. 

“Alright kid, what’s wrong?” he says, Ford coming over to listen as well.

“Nothing,” Dipper says, kicking his feet through the air. 

Stan and Ford just deadpan stare at him, sitting down at the table and ready to wait. It only takes a few seconds of silence for him to open up.

“Well, it's just Mabel made a bunch of friends,” He mumbles, twisting his shirt in his fist as his eyes well up with tears. “And no one wanted to play with me and the teacher kept calling me Mason and we  _ didn’t  _ get to learn about aliens and- and-” he starts rambling, voice cracking and tears falling.

“Hey, hey Dipper,” Ford says, pulling Dipper into his lap and shushing him gently. “It’s okay, it’s just the first day. We’ll talk to the teacher about your name, and-”

Well, there’s not much the uncles can do about the other things, though Stan isn’t entirely opposed to punching five-year-olds that are mean to his nephew.

“Come on kiddo,” he says, rubbing Dipper’s back. “It’s gonna be okay…”

“No it’s not-” the boy insists before he is cut off by a shriek. 

“Dipper! I’m sorry!” Mabel says from the stairwell, obviously having heard why her brother is upset. She rushes over with tears in her eyes and hugs him, saying “I didn’t mean to, please don’t cry. It’s just you were so excited for school and I thought you were gonna do better than me.” She looks at him seriously, holding his face in her little hands. “Here, you can have some of my stickers for your notebook, and tomorrow we can play together and you can talk about aliens and I’ll make everybody listen to you  _ or else _ -” 

“Alright Mabel, that’s very nice of you but don’t get carried away,” Ford says awkwardly, hoping she doesn’t mean that literally. 

“Really, you mean it?” Dipper asks, wiping his face with his shirt sleeve. 

She smiles and locks one of her pinkies around his, “Promise,” 

Stan and Ford are trying not to cry for the third time today.

A few days later at school, Dipper turns down the wrong hallway on the way back from the bathroom. All the corners look the same but he can’t find the kindergarten classroom, and he’s trying not to cry but Mabel’s not with him so it’s hard  _ and- _

“Hey kid, you lost?” A third grade girl asks. 

She has really pretty red hair and is missing one of her baby teeth.

“Um, yeah-” Dipper stutters.

“Here, lemme show you,” she says, gesturing him down the hall towards his class.

After that, Dipper likes going to school a little more. 


	6. 2006

_Winter, 2006_

“No, Grunkle Ford it needs to be fluffier!” Mabel says, inspecting the tulle skirt around her waist. “I have to be the best holiday winter fairy angel princess.”

“You already are Sweetheart,” Ford says obligingly, trying to brush away the layer of glitter all over him. “And if your skirt is any bigger you’re going to trip on stage.”

Mabel huffs but relents, looking in the mirror at her costume skeptically. It’s an artful mess of glitter and fluff and lace, designed by Mabel herself and topped with white fairy wings and a tiara. 

“Mabel, honey you look beautiful,” Ford, her designing assistant, assures her. Yeah, maybe they’ll be picking glitter out of the floor for years, but it’s worth it to see her smile up at him and twirl around in her costume.

“Grunkle Stan, how do I look?” Mabel calls over to him.

“Great Pumpkin!” he shouts back, in the other room with Dipper.

“You can’t even see me!” 

“One second Mabel- I’m, well-” 

About a minute later Dipper comes out of the kitchen wearing a pine tree costume and sits down angrily on the couch. Stan walks in after him, trying very hard not to laugh.

“This is stupid,” Dipper announces, face red as he crosses his arms and grumbles.

“What do you mean? You look great,” Mabel says encouragingly. “Do you want some glitter?” 

“No,” He huffs and tries to bat away the pine needles in his face. 

The twins are seven now and well into second grade, and this winter their class is having a holiday pageant play thing. Mabel is very excited to some kind of angel princess fairy, and Dipper is tree #4 (Ford had to elbow Stan in the gut to make him stop laughing). 

“We don’t even celebrate Christmas,” Dipper says, clearly not happy about the whole event. He definitely doesn’t want to go on stage in front of all those people, and this tree costume is itchy. 

“I thought this was supposed to be a non-disclosure thing?” Stan says, patting Dipper’s back through the mess of fake branches.

“Non denominational,” Ford corrects. “And I don’t know how angels and Christmas trees are supposed to be secular.”

“We asked the teacher if we could do Hanukkah stuff but she said no,” Mabel says, trying to fluff up her skirt more. 

“What?” Ford says, his protective _don’t-mess-with-my-kids_ senses tingling. 

“Yeah,” Dipper says. “She said that no one else celebrates Hanukkah so it would be weird to have it in the pageant.” 

“Jeez, there’s not one other Jewish kid in that whole school? What a bunch of bull-” Stan says outraged, barely censoring his language when Ford shushed him. 

And Ford’s not happy about it either. Growing up in New Jersey, their family wasn’t super religious, but Ma did drag them to temple once or twice a year and they got scolded by the rabbi one time for “defying the laws of man and God” or something. It wasn’t really a big deal to the Stan Twins, but they agreed that the kids should know about their heritage. So they celebrate Hanukkah and taught the kids about Passover and eat chinese food on Christmas, all the important stuff. 

“I think we should have a talk with this teacher,” Ford says, trying to keep his tone measured.

“Yeah, Dad would’ve thrown a chair if he heard that,” Stan says, remembering one of the rare fond memories of their father. “He didn’t fight in that war for nothing.”

“I don’t even want to be in this thing,” Dipper says miserably.

“But Dipper, it’s gonna be okay,” Mabel says, trying to cheer him up. “We get to have cookies after.”

The young boy is not swayed. 

“Here kiddo, I’ve got it,” Stan says suddenly. “Mabel, go get me some of your construction paper.”

She runs into the kitchen, a flurry of glitter trailing behind her, and Ford wonders what Stan is thinking up. At this point, Ford thinks they should just let Dipper not participate and let Mabel do it for fun. 

But Stan takes some yellow paper and a pair of scissors and cuts out a six-pointed star.

“There, now you’re a Hanukkah bush,” He says, plopping the star on top of Dipper’s costume with a dab of glue.

“Hey! I’m taller than a bush,” Dipper says indignantly, but he seems just a little cheered up by the idea. 

“Ooo! I want to be a Hanukkah winter fairy angel princess,” Mabel says, jumping up and down. 

So Ford takes some of her puffy paint and draws a Star of David on her shirt, and they coat that in another layer of glitter because of course. 

“And if that teacher has anything to say about it, you kids tell her to shove it-”

“Stanley!”

“...Well you just leave it to me and Ford, we’ll take care of it.”

The younger twins are already looking forward to it. 

At the pageant Mabel really is the best (or at least the most sparkly) angel fairy whatever. And Dipper is the best Tree #4 he can be. 

(“Stan, stop laughing it’s not funny.” 

“It kinda is Sixer.”)


End file.
